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"  IT  is  a  fearful  stake  the  Poet  casts  ,_' 

When  he  comes  forth  from  his  sweet  solitude. 
Of  hopes,  and  dreams,  and  visionary  things 
To  ask  the  iron  verdict  of  the  world  I 

*  *  *         Not  for  that 

Should  cold  despondency  weigh  down  the  heart  . 
It  is  a  beautiful  and  glorious  gift,  bright  Poetry, 
And  should  be  thankfully  and  nobly  used- 
Let  it  look  up  to  Heaven  I  "  L.  B.  I,. 

AUBURN :  J.  C.  DERBY  &  CO. 

NEW- YORK  :  MARK  H.  NEWMAN  &  CO.,  199  BROADWAY. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1347, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Northern  District  of  New- York. 




rt  : 


MOST  of  the  following  Poems  were  composed  at  sea, 
while  the  Author  was  attached  to  an  American  Frigate 
cruising  in  the  Pacific  Ocean,  to  while  away  the  tedious 
hours — the  monotony  and  ennui  of  a  life  on  board  a  ship 
of  war.  The  kind  partiality  of  his  friends,  and  his  own 
belief  that  some  of  the  pieces  possess  merit,  induce  him 
to  lay  them  before  the  public.  With  these  few  remarks 
the  Author  rests  his  defence,  and  sensible  that  the  work 
must  stand  or  fall  on  its  own  merit,  commits  it  to  the  in 
dulgence  of  his  readers. 



THE  Haunted  Barque, PAGB  9 

The  Winds, 16 

Auburn, 21 

L' Envoy  to  Laura, 24 

Lines  on  the  Death  of , 26 

Rio  De  Janeiro, 27 

To  the  Andes, 33 

Fort  Hill, a<5 

Madeira, 39 



Winter, 45 

Callao, 47 

Stanzas  written  by  the  Grave  of  W.  Gaylord  Clark, 49 

California— a  Satire, 51 

Oahu, 55 

Adieu  to  America 57 

A  Dream, 60 

To  the  Evening  Star, 63 

Passing  Away, 65 

A  Night  on  the  Niagara, 67 

The  Consumptive 71 

Owyhee, 73 

Speak  kindly  of  the  Dead, 77 

Childhood's  Hours, 79 

Owasco, 81 



Stanzas  on  passing  the  Island  of  Juan  Fernandez PAGB    85 

Address  to  the  Stars, 89 

Why  Envy  the  Great  t 92 

The  Mariner  to  his  Sister, 93 

Weep  not  for  the  Departed, 95 

War, 97 

Stanzas  written  in  an  Album, 100 

Stanzas  written  at  Callao,  Peru,  on  the  morning  of  July  4th,  1846,. .  101 

The  Mariner  to  his  Mistress, 102 

To  a  Disappointed  Lover, 103 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry, 105 

Stanzas  to  "  Copper  John," 107 

The  Evening  Wind, 109 









'  I  never  more  shall  mock  at  marvellous  things, 
Such  strange  conceits  hath  after  time  found  true 
That  once  were  themes  for  jest." 

W.  O.  SIMMS. 

NIGHT  hovers  o'er  the  furrowed  deep, 

And  plaintive  is  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
The  stars  through  azure  windows  peep, 

While  gentle  winds  come  whispering  by  ; 
The  sun,  which  like  a  fiery  globe 

Was  burning  on  the  western  wave, 
Hath  wrapped  himself  in  dusky  robe, 

And  laid  him  in  his  watery  grave  : 
The  dolphin  tints  of  dying  day, 

Grow  fainter  in  the  paling  sky, 
Like  hectic  flush  that  fades  away 

From  mortal  cheek  when  death  is  nigh  ; 



While  Luna,  climbing  o'er  the  billow, 
Pale  empress  of  the  silvery  night, 

Along  the  seaman's  briny  pillow 

Paves  with  her  beams  a  path  of  light. 

It  is  the  hour  when  ocean's  slave, 

The  jaded  sailor,  seeks  his  cot. 
To  dream  perchance  of  mother's  grave, 

And  of  her  prayers  too  long  forgot ; 
He  slumbers,  but  his  thoughts  still  dwell 

On  playmates  of  his  childhood's  home, 
He  hears  again  the  swinging  bell, 

At  twilight  peal  from  mossy  dome ; 
He  hears  again  the  schoolboy's  cry 

Of  joy  upon  the  sunlit  green, 
And  fancy  spreads  before  his  eye 

A  chart  of  many  a  vanished  scene. 

A  gallant  barque  is  on  the  wave, 
Commanded  by  a  seaman  brave, 
Who  long  has  ploughed  the  waters  o'er, 
To  many  a  fair  and  distant  shore. 
Bold  THORNE  !  the  ocean  was  thy  bride, 
Thy  earliest  love — thy  earliest  pride, 
And  on  her  swelling,  snowy  breast, 
Thy  pillowed  head  alone  can  rest ! 
What  though  thy  vessel,  fair  to  view, 
Was  found  deserted  by  her  crew, 
On  Biscay's  wild  and  restless  wave, 
Where  many  a  seaman  finds  a  grave, 



Her  name — her  country,  all  unknown, 

Like  morning's  lingering  star — alone  ! 

What  though  't  is  said  that  shadowy  forms 

At  midnight  throng  her  deck  in  swarms  ; 

That  spectres  man  the  yards  ahoon, 

And  gibber  to  the  midnight  moon — 

That  beings  of  another  world, 

With  spectral  hands  the  canvass  furled, 

When  the  nightwatch  was  sunk  in  sleep, 

Becalmed  upon  the  Indian  deep  ! 

What  though  't  is  said  that  groans  and  sighs, 

Upon  the  infant  winds  arise, 

And  yells  the  dead  might  quake  to  hear, 

Salute  the  sailor's  frightened  ear ! 

Thou  unbelieving  still  canst  dare, 

And  scoff  at  beings  formed  of  air  ! 

No  sheeted  ghost — no  goblin  wraith, 

Hath  met  thee  in  life's  thorny  path. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  western  sky  ; 
Dark  scuds  the  moon  rode  wildly  by ; 
The  billow's  cheeks  grew  wan  and  pale, 
And  threw  upon  each  swelling  sail 
A  ghastly,  phosphorescent  light ; 
The  cowering  crew  with  fear  were  white  ; 
The  tempest  through  the  rigging  howled, 
The  distant  thunder  hoarsely  growled, 
And  fiery  through  his  windows  high, 
Fierce  shone  his  bright  and  angry  eye, 



Whose  glances  in  the  midnight  wave 

Oft  dug  themselves  a  watery  grave. 

No  playful  star,  of  beauty  vain, 

Peeped  slyly  on  the  raven  main, 

To  view  her  image  pictured  there ; 

All  hid  themselves  in  black  despair ; 

While  from  the  hissing  watery  Alps, 

The  vessel  tore  their  fleecy  scalps, 

And,  trembling,  leaped  from  surge  to  surge, 

As  Boreas  applied  the  scourge  ! 

It  was  a  night  of  gloom  and  fear, 

When  tortured  ghosts  on  earth  appear, 

And  fallen  pirates  wildly  rave, 

And  shriek  along  the  inky  wave  ! 

The  sails  were  reefed  to  brave  the  blow, 
THORNE,  wearied,  sought  his  berth  below, 
Where,  in  his  swinging  couch  reclined, 
He  listened  to  the  moaning  wind, 
Till  dozing  slumber  soothed  his  care, 
And  o'er  him  spread  her  mantle  fair. 

He  wakened  with  a  shuddering  start ; 

An  icy  hand  was  on  his  heart ! 

The  lightning's  fierce  and  ceaseless  blaze 

Lit  with  its  red,  unearthly  rays 

The  cabin's  dreariest,  darkest  nook, 

And  THORNE  with  fright  and  horror  shook  ! 

Seated  around  the  cabin  table, 

With  stalwart  forms  and  faces  sable, 



Carousing,  was  an  awful  band ; 
The  goblet  passed  from  hand  to  hand  ! 
Their  throats  were  gashed  from  ear  to  ear, 
Their  brows  bore  marks  of  sword  and  spear, 
Their  glassy  eyes  seemed  carved  in  stone, 
No  brightening  lustre  in  them  shone, 
And  each  in  jacket,  shirt,  and  vest 
Of  murdered  mariner  was  dressed  ! 
In  desperate  battle  on  the  wave, 
When  reckless  robbers  met  the  brave, 
A  sabre's  elge,  with  slaughter  dull, 
Had  cleft  a  pirate  chieftain's  skull ; 
That  white  skull  was  with  liquor  filled 
From  riven  human  hearts  distilled, 
And  master  of  the  hellish  revel, 
There  at  the  head,  grim  sat  the  devil ! 
He  gave  the  toasts  and  joined  the  cheer, 
That  deafened  midnight's  listening  ear, 
And  bade  each  trembling  timber  quake, 
As  aspen  leaves  in  Autumn  shake, 
And  when  the  echos  died  away, 
He  burst  into  a  joyous  lay  ! 


Drink,  brothers !  drink,  brothers !  let  the  goblet  go  round, 

For  to  regions  infernal  below  ye  are  bound  ! 

When  I  led  ye  to  slaughter,  to  rapine  and  sin, 

Ha !  ha !  ha !  did  I  tell  ye  the  goal  ye  should  win  ? 

Ye  are  mine  !  ye  are  mine!  let  the  goblet  go  round, 

By  appointment  I  've  met  ye— my  wishes  are  crowned  ! 



Drink,  brothers !  drink  freely !  let  the  goblet  go  round, 
In  the  home  ye  are  nearing  no  goblet  is  found  ! 
Here 's  a  health  to  my  subjects  unflinching  who  brave, 
Who  are  struggling  and  battling  with  each  fiery  wave  ! 
In  those  bright  blazing  billows  ye  never  shall  drown, 
Till  eternity's  sun  in  the  west  shall  go  down ! 

Drink,  brothers!  drink,  brothers !  let  the  goblet  go  round, 
Mankind  ye  have  reddened  with  many  a  wound  ! 
I  nerved  your  strong  arms  and  ye  dealt  the  death  blow, 
Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! — we  '11  have  revels  in  plenty  below ! 
Drink  madly  !  drink  gladly  !  push  the  goblet  around, 
With  the  serpents  of  conscience  ye  soon  shall  be  crowned ! 

'  T  was  I,  whispered  the  traitor,  who  stealthily  crept 
And  mangled  your  throats  in  your  cots  as  ye  slept, 
But  stern,  wan  visaged  illness  soon  bade  him  decay, 
As  the  moon,  palely  rising,  sweeps  darkness  away  ; 
And  the  vessel  unguided  alone  rode  the  main, 
Till  ye  found  her,  and  spread  her  white  canvass  again  ! 

Ye  have  had  your  probation — no  more  we  meet  here, 
And  the  monarch  infernal  no  more  is  your  peer  ! 
Kneel,  ye  slaves,  to  the  power  that  rides  on  the  wind, 
While  my  cankering  fetters  upon  you  I  bind  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ye  are  mine  !  let  the  goblet  go  round  ! 
To  the  regions  of  blackness  below  ye  are  bound  ! 

Trembling  they  knelt,  the  lightning's  glare, 
Revealed  the  features  of  despair ; 



The  clanking  chains  were  o'er  them  thrown, 
And  one  heart-rending,  awful  groan 
Was  mingled  with  the  thunder's  peal, 
That  made  the  staggering  vessel  reel ! 
A  fiery  holt  from  Heaven  cast, 
Burst  glaring  on  the  quivering  mast, 
And  THORNE,  his  wretched  life  to  save, 
Was  wrestling  with  the  briny  wave  ! 

The  vessel  cowered  beneath  the  flash ; 
A  mountain  billow  o'er  her  dashed  ; 
Thus  Alpine  avalanche  descends, 
And  o'er  the  shrinking  hamlet  bends 
One  moment  with  its  threatening  hands, 
Then  bursts  and  o'er  the  plain  expands, 
Crushing  beneath  the  fatal  blow, 
Mankind  in  shapeless  ruin  low ! 
Thus  burst  the  hissing  Alp-like  wave, 
And  buried  many  a  seaman  brave  ! 

Still  THORNE  undaunted  stemmed  the  flood, 

And  manfully  his  fate  withstood, 

Till  Fortune,  (fickle,  wayward  child,) 

Descended  mid  the  waters  wild, 

And  bore  to  him  a  shattered  mast, 

To  which  with  cords  he  bound  him  fast. 

There  long  he  rode  the  billows  o'er, 
Till  on  a  sandy,  unknown  shore, 
The  broken  spar  with  him  was  cast, 
Before  the  fury  of  the  blast. 





YE  WINDS  who  bear  my  barque  upon  your  wing, 
Mysterious  wanderers  o'er  the  peopled  earth ! 
Say  !  will  ye  strike  the  minstrel's  ^wearied  string, 
And  light  a  lonely  heart  again  with  mirth  ? 
From  whence  come  ye,  and  where  had  ye  your  birth  ? 
Untired  ye  roam,  with  active,  restless  feet, 
Through  crowded  streets  and  round  the  cotter's  hearth, 
Where  joy  and  sorrow,  worth  and  crime  ye  meet, 
Alike  in  winter's  cold,  and  blazing  summer's  heat ! 

Ye  WINDS  OF  SPRING,  with  soft  and  fragrant  breath, 
Come  stealing  o'er  the  senses  like  a  dream  ; 
Ye  wake  the  violet  from  its  sleep  of  death, 
Unlock  the  icy  fetters  of  the  stream, 
Whose  laughing  waters  in  the  sunlight  gleam, 
And  joyous  dance  to  your  JSolian  strain  ; 
While  the  calm  lake  reflects  the  sun's  last  beam, 
Whose  golden  tints  do  from  its  bosom  wane, 
Like  changing  rainbow  hues  of  hapless  dolphin  slain  ! 



Ye  breathe  upon  the  sear  and  naked  field, 
Who  wraps  herself  in  emerald  mantle  fair, 
Her  glowing  bosom  from  your  eye  concealed, 
For  warm  the  kisses  ye  have  planted  there  ; 
And  maiden-like,  and  coy,  no  more  she  '11  bare 
Her  blooming  beauties  to  your  ardent  gaze ; 
But  her  soft  cheek  will  crimson  flowerets  wear, 
When  ye  her  peerless  loveliness  shall  praise, 
And  from  her  swelling  breast  playful  its  screen  ye  raise  ! 

The  leafless  forest  meets  your  fond  embrace, 

And  swelling  buds  proclaim  your  genial  power  ; 
Stern  winter's  footsteps  quickly  ye  efface, 
And  take  the  scent  of  many  an  early  flower ; 
Ye  kiss  sweet  lips  in  beauty's  shaded  bower : 
But  like  all  earthly  things  ye  too  must  die, 
When  ye  have  reigned  your  brief  and  fleeting  hour ! 
Yes  !  on  the  wings  of  May  ye  soon  will  fly, 
When  sunny  fields  are  green,  and  blue  the  summer  sky  ! 

Ye  SUMMER  WINDS — pilgrims  from  southern  lands, 
Wearied  of  playing  mid  their  groves  and  vines  ; 
Ye  bring  soft  odours  in  your  gentle  hands, 
And  softly  whisper  through  the  moaning  pines, 
Of  sunny  climes,  where  ope  the  golden  mines, 
Where  fragrant  fruits  spontaneous  grace  each  tree, 
Where  deathless  summer,  crowned  with  roses,  shines, 
Where  joyous  rivers  sport  in  playful  glee, 
And  white-winged  vessels  glide  along  a  waveless  sea  ! 



When  evening  drops  her  curtain  o'er  the  world — 
When  the  red  sun  his  daily  task  hath  done, 
And  golden  banner  round  his  couch  is  furled, 
Ye  come  with  voices  like  a  spirit's  tone, 
Fanning  the  heated  air,  but  soon  are  gone, 
To  quench  your  burning  thirst  with  sparkling  dew, 
From  the  fair  bosom  of  the  moonlit  lawn  ; 
Then,  soaring  up,  athwart  the  heavens  blue, 
Ye  waft  the  cloud-winged  barque  with  her  aerial  crew ! 

And  when  the  sun  climbs  o'er  the  eastern  hills, 
And  through  a  sea  of  saffron  lifts  his  head; 
When  his  bright  eye  the  world  with  glory  fills, 
When  moon  and  stars  before  his  car  have  fled, 
Ye  coyly  come,  by  unseen  spirits  led, 
Rippling  the  peaceful  lake  with  playful  hand, 
Whispering  the  sluggard  to  forsake  his  bed, 
While  morn  and  beauty  linger  o'er  the  land, 
And  mountain  sentinels  in  golden  trappings  stand  ! 

Ye  AUTUMN  WINDS — sad  death-knell  of  the  year — 
Who  sweep  with  mournful  voices  o'er  the  plain  ! 
Ye  strew  the  faded  flowers  o'er  Nature's  bier, 
And  chill,  with  frosty  breath,  in  every  vein, 
Earth's  ebbing  life-blood  ere  it  greets  the  main  ! 
The  yellow  maize  fields  rustle  as  ye  pass 
With  rainbow  tints  the  forest  leaves  to  stain, 
And  the  green  meadow  takes  the  hue  of  brass, 
As  with  relentless  feet  ye  trample  down  its  grass  ! 



Ye  learn  to  mimic  Winter's  wrathful  tone, 
And  sing  his  dreary  songs  too  oft  and  soon  ; 
At  midnight's  wizzard  hour  ye  lowly  moan, 
And  drift  the  grey  clouds  past  the  waning  moon  ; 
Ye  shake  the  ripe  nuts  for  the  sly  racoon, 
Who,  ever  prudent,  gathers  in  his  store, 
While  yet  the  Indian  Summer's  smoky  noon 
Lingers  with  swelling  sails  on  Winter's  shore; 
Ere  fleecy  snows  descend,  and  dismal  tempests  roar. 

Through  dread  November's  night  with  moaning  sighs, 
Ye  watch  by  Nature's  death  bed — soothe  her  care, 
And  with  cold  fingers  close  her  dying  eyes ; 
Then  shriek  and  howl  amid  the  forest  bare  ; 
And  should  some  tree  retain  its  mantle  fair, 
Ye  tear  it  off  and  bow  each  monarch  low  ! 
For  all,  like  you,  must  sombre  features  wear 
When  to  the  funeral  of  the  year  they  go, 
And  the  death  hymn  you  chant  in  measured  notes  and  slow ! 

Ye  WINTER  WINDS — when  the  black  storm-cloud  lowers, 
Ye  haste  with  frowning  brow  upon  your  way ; 
Sounding  the  requiem  of  the  withered  flowers, 
While  bending  forests  own  your  fearful  sway, 
And  cowering  oaks  for  hopeless  mercy  pray  ! 
With  tempests  fierce  ye  lash  the  hissing  wave, 
And  strew  its  rocky  shores  with  frosty  spray, 
Digging  for  foundering  barques  a  yawning  grave, 
Where  sink  to  depths  unknown  the  beautiful  and  brave  ! 



The  howling  spirit  of  the  fearful  storm 
Ploughs  awful  furrows  in  the  midnight  deep  ; 
The  martial  waves  their  white-plumed  columns  form, 
And  with  their  tempest  music  onward  sweep, 
While  the  scourged  vessel  o'er  the  surge  doth  leap 
Like  lonely  spectre  on  some  desert  plain  ; 
With  shattered  wing  she  climbs  the  watery  steep, 
Then  down  to  horrid  valleys  darts  again, 
While  roars  your  wrathful  voice,  and  moans  the  tortured  main  ! 

Ye  seek  the  lone  and  unprotected  cot, 
Where  shivering  poverty  obscurely  dwells, 
Whose  ragged  offspring  mourn  their  hapless  lot, 
Till  bitter  tears  o'erflow  their  briny  wells  : 
Then  your  loud  trumpet  voice  to  terror  swells, 
As  with  rude  grasp  ye  rend  their  tattered  clothes, 
And  tell  of  Charity's  secluded  cells, 
Where  needy  want  submits  to  taunts  and  blows, 
For  shelter  from  your  wrath  and  winter's  driving  snows  ! 

Ye  WINDS  who  bear  my  barque  upon  your  wing, 
Mysterious  wanderers  from  zone  to  zone  ; 
JEoliaa  voices  to  my  ear  ye  bring, 
Fond  notes  of  other  years  blend  with  your  moan  ! 
Like  spirit's  whisper  by  the  grave's  cold  stone, 
They  're  fraught  with  music,  gentle,  soft  and  sweet, 
Like  one  now  silenced  but  remembered  tone 
That  thrilled  my  boyish  veins.    On  angel  feet 
O'er  the  dark  rolling  waves,  those  witching  sounds  retreat ! 


"Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain." 


"  Where  genius  might  revel  by  mountain  and  stream, 
And  fancy  give  wings  to  her  holiest  dream." 

How  often  through  the  mists  of  time, 

Come  memories  bright  across  the  soul, 
As  gilded  clouds  in  southern  clime 

Athwart  the  setting  sun  will  roll ; 
And  like  our  youthful  dreams  of  heaven, 

Shed  radiance  on  the  clouded  heart, 
When  all  is  dark,  a  sunbeam  given 

To  dry  the  gushing  tears  that  start ! 

Sweet  AUBURN  !  such  the  radiant  light 

That  fills  my  soul  at  thoughts  of  thee  ! 
Like  music  of  a  summer  night 

Which  floats  along  the  moonlit  sea, 
Fond  memories  of  thy  bright  green  vales 

Are  floating  gently,  softly  by, 
Thy  quiet  woods,  thy  hills  and  dales 

Are  spread  before  my  mental  eye. 



Upon  a  hill  which  gazes  o'er 

Owasco's  soft  and  spreading  vale, 
There  stands  a  fortress,  but  no  more 

Upon  the  fragrant  summer  gale, 
Comes  borne  the  painted  warrior's  cry, 

Nor  Indian  maiden's  plaintive  tones. 
But  'mong  green  trees  that  tower  on  high, 

The  gentle  south  wind  lowly  moans. 

There,  oft  I  've  seen  the  rosy  blush 

Of  early  morn  steal  o'er  the  sky, 
As  cheeks  of  timid  maiden  flush 

When  lover  seeks  her  downcast  eye ; 
And  there  I  've  watched  the  waking  sun 

Bathe  Auburn's  snowy  spires  in  gold, 
And  when  his  western  goal  was  won, 

Rest  on  the  hills  like  knight  of  old. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  though  thy  sunny  hills 

May  never  greet  my  sight  again ; 
Though  the  wild  music  of  thy  rills 

Is  changed  for  roar  of  faithless  main, 
Within  thy  bounds  is  many  a  heart, 

That  warms  with  kindly  thoughts  for  me, 
And  tears  to  kindly  eyes  will  start, 

When  I  am  on  the  wide,  deep  sea  ! 



But  there  is  one  with  starry  eye, 

Who  dwells  amid  thy  peerless  scenes, 
For  whom  my  absent  heart  will  sigh, 

When  distant  far  our  barque  careens  ! 
Sweet  maiden,  should  these  hurried  lines 

E'er  meet  thy  pensive,  tearful  sight, 
Remember  that  the  morning  shines 

The  brightest  when  most  black  the  night. 


I'M  on  the  main,  far,  far  from  thee, 

Thou  brightest  star  in  memory's  sky  ! 
A  flowery  isle  in  life's  dark  sea, 

Thou  long  hast  bloomed  to  glad  my  eye. 
Though  ocean's  furrowed  breast  I  roam, 

And  voices  strange  aie  in  mine  ear — 
Fond  thoughts  of  thee,  and  childhood's  home, 

Like  angels  come  my  heart  to  cheer. 

I  loved — and  all  unknown  to  thee, 

I  've  gazed  upon  thy  sunny  brow, 
And  longed  to  bend  a  suppliant  knee 

To  one  so  fair  and  bright,  when  thou 
Wert  like  the  opening  rose  of  June, 

Thy  sweetest,  loveliest  leaves  concealed, 
But  years  that  bade  me  hold  commune 

With  grief,  thy  charms  have  all  revealed. 

Yes,  years  have  flown  and  mid  the  storm, 
Where  ocean's  surges  madly  rave, 

In  dreams  I  saw  thy  blighted  form, 
Placed  pale  and  faded  in  the  grave  ; 



Like  lily  broken  from  its  stem 
And  crushed  in  earth  by  ruthless  feet, 

When  the  bright  lustre  of  the  gem 
Was  dimmed,  no  smile  the  gem  did  greet. 

I  loved  thee,  but  thou  knewst  it  not ; 

I  would  not  cloud  one  sunny  hour 
Of  thine,  and  tore  me  from  the  spot 

Where  thou,  a  bright  and  peerless  flower, 
A  fragrance  lent  to  every  breeze, 

Whose  soft  wing  fanned  my  fevered  cheek, 
And  sought  in  lands  beyond  the  seas, 

To  crush  the  love  I  durst  not  speak. 

Years  rolled  away — we  met  again — 

A  deeper  light  was  in  thine  eye, 
As  Sol,  ascending,  brighter  stains 

The  azure  of  the  morning  sky  : 
Yet  still,  perchance  thou  didst  not  dream 

The  music  of  thy  voice  to  me, 
And  that  my  thoughts,  like  long  pent  stream, 

Would  burst  their  bounds  and  flow  to  thee. 


SHE  is  gone  to  repose,  and  she  slumbers  in  sadness, 
Where  silence  enwraps  her  in  darkness  and  gloom  ; 

Her  sweet  voice  is  hushed,  and  the  heart  full  of  gladness, 
That  beat  for  me  only,  is  cold  in  the  tomb. 

As  the  quiet  stream  looks  on  the  sun  brightly  gleaming, 
Till  its  bosom  is  filled  with  its  radiance  bright, 

So  in  her  dark  eyes  which  with  Heaven  were  beaming, 
I  gazed  till  my  spirit  was  filled  with  their  light. 

Farewell — thou  art  faded,  and  cold  is  thy  pillow, 
But  at  evening,  the  stars  from  their  home  in  the  sky, 

Send  the  breezes  to  open  the  boughs  of  the  willow, 
Look  down  on  thy  grave  through  its  branches  and  sigh. 

Thy  spirit  hath  gone  to  a  land  full  of  beauty, 
Where  flowers  of  happiness  scent  every  wind  ; 

By  angels  thy  pallet  is  held,  for  thy  duty 
Is  to  paint  the  bright  clouds  when  the  sun  has  declined. 


0 !  COULD  I  dip  my  raptured  pen, 
In  some  bright,  fairy  haunted  glen, 
Filled  with  the  soft  and  blushing  dies, 
That  stain  the  western  sunset  skies  ; 
Could  I  but  seize  the  rainbow's  hues, 
To  blend  with  morning's  pearly  dews, 
Which  hang  like  tear  drops  on  the  flowers, 
That  love  to  bloom  in  beauty's  bowers ; 
Then  would  I  paint  each  scene  that  glows, 
More  lovely  than  the  opening  rose, 
Which  Rio  mirrors  in  her  bay, 
A  theme  for  poet's  sweetest  lay  ! 

When  Nature,  with  industrious  hand, 
From  ocean's  bosom  raised  the  land, 
With  ceaseless  toil  and  endless  care, 
Each  day  she  placed  new  beauties  there. 
Green,  verdant  hills  on  high  she  piled, 
And  rugged  mountains  steep  and  wild, 



Where  oft  between,  soft  plains  were  spread, 
Where  many  a  wild  flower  reared  its  head  ; 
Blue  streams  from  jutting  crags  she  poured, 
Which  mid  her  infant  forests  roared ; 
But  when  the  yellow  Autumn  waned, 
One  spot  unfinished  still  remained. 

Wearied,  she  cried,  "  I'll  toil  no  more, 
But  o'er  my  cultured  fields  will  soar, 
And  cull  the  fairest,  brightest  scenes, 
Between  the  poles  that  intervene, 
And  strew  them  with  a  lavish  hand, 
To  deck  this  soft,  enchanted  land." 

She  said,  and  o'er  the  ocean  blue, 
With  sounding  wings  she  swiftly  flew  ; 
Like  lightning  leaping  from  on  high, 
The  fleet  winged  winds  she  darted  by, 
Till,  Afric's  sunny  shores  in  sight, 
She  rested  from  her  arrowy  flight, 
And  throwing  her  bright  glances  round, 
A  range  of  mountains  there  she  found, 
Begemmed  with  matchless  flowerets  o'er; 
Those  mountains  from  their  couch  she  tore, 
And  bound  them  on  her  shoulders  fair, 
Then  soaring,  clove  the  parting  air, 
And  like  Sahara's  sultry  wind,     •• 
Left  nought  but  desert  plains  behind  ! 



As  meteor  sails  athwart  the  sky, 
Leaving  a  fiery  wake  on  high, 
She  sought  the  flowery  breast  of  France, 
And  saw  bright  streamlets  on  it  dance. 
With  silvery  feet  they  tripped  along, 
To  their  own  wild  but  plaintive  song ; 
She  culled  the  fairest  in  the  land, 
And  scooped  them  in  her  hollowed  hand  ! 
Then  turned  and  over  Alpine  chains, 
Journeyed  to  fair  Italia's  plains. 
There  golden  fruits  and  crimson  flowers, 
Enchanted,  hung  in  beauty's  bowers, 
As  if  'twere  joy  to  scent  the  air, 
That  kissed  such  blooming  angels  there  ! 
Ruthless  each  floweret  from  its  stem, 
She  plucked,  fair  Rio's  breast  to  gem  ; 
They're  gone — Italian  maidens  fair, 
Go  ask  the  winds  of  Autumn,  where  ! 

Homeward  she  turned  her  flight  again, 

And  winged  her  o'er  the  western  main  ; 

Soaring  full  oft  in  passing  by, 

Into  the  starry,  concave  sky, 

To  catch  each  gold  and  amber  hue, 

That  floated  in  its  sea  of  blue  ; 

Till,  overladen  with  the  spoil, 

Her  weary  pinions  drooped  with  toil, 

And  by  sweet  Rio's  glittering  town, 

She  set  her  load  of  beauty  down. 



A  bay  with  deathless  azure  crowned, 
Is  manacled  with  verdure  round  ; 
And  yet  a  smile  upon  it  reigns, 
As  if  it  loved  its  flowery  chains ! 
Thus  oft  when  Hymen's  nuptial  hands, 
Entwine  two  lovers'  willing  hands, 
They  gaze  with  rapture  on  the  tie, 
And  all  the  ills  of  life  defy ; 
For  worlds,  apart  they  would  not  stray, 
Nor  tear  those  silken  chains  away  ! 

Upon  that  waveless  bay  serene, 

Is  pictured  many  a  peerless  scene  ; 

Green  mountain  peaks,  that  tower  on  high, 

Ambitious  rivals  of  the  sky, 

With  humbler  hills  where  breezes  sigh, 

Through  foliage  thick,  in  passing  by, 

Where  white-walled  cots  beside  the  deep, 

From  out  their  leafy  prisons  peep, 

And  little  isles  that  softly  smile, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  mouldering  pile, 

But  soon  the  hand  of  dull  decay, 

Will  sweep  those  crumbling  walls  away  ! 

Fair  Rio's  white  and  stately  town, 
That  wears  the  mantle  of  renown  ! 
Like  some  gay,  fabled  ocean  queen, 
Embowered  in  groves  of  brightest  green, 
She  sits  beside  the  placid  deep, 
And  clings  along  each  grassy  steep, 


While  many  a  turret  shoots  on  high, 
On  which  the  morning's  opening  eye, 
Looks  down  with  ardent,  fiery  gaze, 
And  sees  them  in  his  lustre  blaze ; 
While  churches  and  cathedrals  gray, 
With  granite  shields,  defy  decay  ! 

Where  countless  barks  go  gliding  down, 
Grim  pondrous  castles  darkly  frown, 
Whose  open-mouthed  embrazures  show, 
Their  iron  fangs  in  many  a  row, 
And  howling  oft  along  the  wave, 
Wake  echo  in  his  mountain  cave, 
Who  rushes  out  with  angry  cries, 
To  which  each  mocking  wood  replies, 
And  laughs  with  laughter  long  and  deep, 
To  see  him  startled  from  his  sleep  ! 

Reclined  along  the  western  sky, 
The  day  has  closed  his  weary  eye, 
And  sent  his  last  glance  o'er  the  deep, 
Then,  wrapped  in  darkness,  sunk  to  sleep. 
Each  mountain  sad  and  black  appears, 
Like  pall  around  the  funeral  bier, 
Till  Luna  lifts  her  radiant  brow, 
And  cleaves  the  sky  with  silvery  prow, 
Then  every  peak  is  bathed  in  light, 
Each  mossy  rock  is  gleaming  bright, 
And  forests,  clothed  in  burnished  leaves, 
That  whisper  to  the  playful  bree/e, 



Appear  like  distant  armies  crowned 

With  diamonds  for  some  act  renowned  ! 

In  Nature's  vast  and  starry  hall, 

Which  circling  azure  skies  en  wall, 

The  chandelier  on  high  displays, 

Its  countless  lamps  that  brightly  blaze  ; 

While  in  their  mountain  seats  below, 

An  orchestra  of  insects  blow 

Their  myriad  pipes,  which  lend  the  air 

A  voice  so  sweet,  so  soft  and  fair, 

One  well  might  deem  that  angels  bright, 

Had  left  their  golden  realms  of  light, 

To  whisper  in  the  listening  ear, 

And  bid  the  soul  in  Heaven  appear ! 

Our  frigate's  wings  are  spread  in  flight, 
The  ocean  swallows  from  my  sight 
Each  moonlit  hill  begemmed  with  dew, 
As  swift  we  plough  the  waters  blue. 
But  still  fond  memory  shall  retain 
A  portrait  of  each  smiling  plain, 
Whose  tints  are  penciled  on  the  mind, 
Though  Rio's  scenes  are  left  behind  ! 


EARTH'S  towering  mountains  own  thee  king, 

Thy  head  is  crowned  with  snow, 
Where  the  condor  rests  his  wearied  wing, 

When  icy  tempests  blow. 
The  lone  Pacific's  trembling  waves, 

Are  cowering  at  thy  feet, 
With  palid  cheeks  like  those  of  slaves, 

When  thy  stern  glance  they  meet ! 

Thou  ne'er  hadt  stooped  to  hold  commune> 

With  lowly  things  of  earth, 
Alike  to  thee  is  flowery  June, 

Or  cold  December's  birth  ; 
Companionship  thou  hast  with  clouds, 

They  hover  round  thy  head, 
And  wrap  thy  form  in  misty  shrouds, 

Like  winding  sheets,  the  dead  ! 



Thy  head  is  soaring  to  the  sky, 

Thine  eye  perchance  doth  scan 
The  beauties  of  the  world  on  high, 

Where  dwells  the  soul  of  man  ; 
Perchance  thou  seest  the  matchless  hand, 

That  paints  the  sunset  skies, 
The  wall  which  circles  that  bright  land, 

Where  pleasure  never  dies ! 


"  —  Near  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky."  BRYANT. 

BRIGHT  spot,  on  which  the  golden  sun 
First  gazes  in  the  early  morn, 

And  when  his  western  goal  is  won 
Last  of  his  glory  shorn  1 

I  stand  amid  thy  moaning  trees, 

And  listen  to  the  evening  breeze. 

A  voice  is  in  the  rustling  leaves 
That  weave  a  roof  above  my  head, 

A  voice  of  wo,  like  one  that  grieves 
Beside  the  early  dead  ; — 

And  plaintive,  low,  distinct  and  clear, 

A  spirit  warrior's  voice  I  hear : 

*  A  rise  of  ground  situated  in  Auburn,  on  which  is  an  old  Indian  Fort, 
of  the  lime  orcause  of  the  originof  which,  nothing  is  known. 



"  My  race  has  perished  like  the  flowers 

That  droop  beneath  the  Autumn  blast, 
Like  withered  leaves  that  wintery  showers 

Upon  the  cold  earth  cast ; 
But  still  my  spirit  lingers  here, 
Beside  the  scenes  in  life  so  dear. 

"  Here,  where  the  watch-fires  blazed  around, 

And  painted  warriors  gaily  sang 
Of  deeds  upon  the  battle  ground, 
Until  the  green  wood  rang ; — • 
•No  traces  of  their  band  remain, 
Save  ruined  mound  above  the  slain. 

'  But  still  I  love  to  wander  where 

My  little  feet  in  childhood  strayed, 
And  listen  to  the  evening  air 

That  roams  amid  the  shade  ; — 
And  think  of  one  that  early  died, 
Who  sleeps  upon  this  green  hill's  side. 

"  She  was  the  brightest  of  the  gay 

And  happy  maidens  here  that  dwelt, 
The  sunlight  of  my  boyhood's  day, 

To  whom  alone  I  knelt ; 
But  in  the  rose  a  canker  lay,— 
It  withered  from  my  sight  away. 



"  I  loved  her,  and  her  lightest  tone 

Was  music  sweeter  far  to  me 
Than  that  around  the  radiant  throne 

Where  seraphs  bend  the  knee  ; 
She  was  to  me  a  memory  rare 
Of  all  things  lovely,  bright  and  fair. 

"  She  drooped  as  droops  the  gentian  flower, 
When  falls  the  blighting,  hoary  frost, 

But  still  delayed  her  parting  hour, 
Though  life  its  charms  had  lost, 

Through  summer's  bright  and  sultry  day, 

Till  Autumn  on  the  forest  lay. 

'  Then,  while  the  rainbow's  painted  robe 
Was  wrapped  around  the  clustered  trees, 

And  when  the  sun,  like  fiery  globe, 
Looked  through  the  smoky  breeze  : — 

When  all  her  sister  flowers  were  dead, 

In  sighs  her  gentle  spirit  fled ; 

"  As  if  it  grieved  to  leave  the  home, 
So  beautiful,  where  it  had  dwelt, 
Through  Manitou's  bright  climes  to  roam, 

Where  endless  bliss  is  felt ; 
Where  silver  streamlets  laughing  run, 
In  lands  beyond  the  setting  sun. 



4  They  laid  her  in  her  place  of  rest, 
Upon  this  green  hill's  sunny  side, 

And  heaped  the  mould  upon  the  breast, 
Cold,  cold,  to  joy  and  pride  ; — 

And  here  my  lingering  soul  must  stay, 

And  weep  the  lagging  hours  away." 


WHEN  through  the  briny  billows'  spray, 
The  wanderer  ploughs  his  lonely  way, 
Where  nought  but  waters  heaving  high, 
For  weary  months  can  greet  his  eye  ; 
How  sweet  uprears  from  ocean's  breast> 
Some  sunny  isle  in  verdure  dressed  ! 
Thus  fair  MADEIRA  lifts  its  head> 
To  which  the  stooping  skies  are  wed. 
Its  brow  upholds  a  wreath  of  snow, 
Where  wintery  tempests  hoarsely  blow  ; 
While  far  below,  soft  valleys  shine, 
Where  amorous  vines  in  beauty  twine, 
O'er  tiny  cots  that  whitely  gleam, 
Beside  each  seaward  hastening  stream, 
Where  Lusian  beauties  sauntering  stray. 
And  pass  the  noontide  hours  away  ! 


Romantic  town  that  crowns  the  steep, 
Fair  FUNCHAL,  gazing  on  the  deep ! 
Thy  castle  planted  on  the  crag, 
Where  waves  on  high  the  Lusian  flag, 



And  floats  in  gorgeous  splendor  bright, 
In  the  first  blush  of  morning  light ; 
On  beetling  bluff  thy  dwellings  white, 
That  glimmer  through  the  pall  of  night ; 
Thy  scattered  cots  that  firmly  cling, 
Along  the  mountain's  drooping  wing ; 
The  stately  convent  walls  half  seen, 
Peeping  from  out  their  woody  screen, 
Where  shepherds  watch  their  timid  flocks, 
Browsing  amid  the  frowning  rocks ; — 
Like  landscape  of  a  dream  by  night, 
Ye  vanish  from  my  aching  sight ! 


SHE  seems  a  city  of  the  dead, 
Her  stately  grandeur  weeping  fled, 
With  wrinkled  brow  and  stern — Decay 
Stands  scowling  o'er  her  ruins  gray  ! 
Her  Viceroys  long  have  filled  the  tomb, 
And  faction  wraps  their  land  in  gloom, 
But  fading  beauty  lingers  still, 
Beside  each  streamlet,  wood  and  rill. 

When  evening  throws  her  shades  around, 

And  moonbeams  stain  with  silvery  hue, 
The  vast  cathedral  turrets,  crowned 

With  towering  crosses,  bathed  in  dew; 
Like  lingering  sentinels  they  stand, 

Beside  the  pale,  unburied  slain, 
And  upward  point  with  dusky  hand, 

To  lands  where  they  shall  meet  again  ! 



Vast  churches,  decked  with  paintings  rare, 
And  sculptured  statues  coldly  fair, 
And  rifled  altars  meet  the  eye, 
Claiming  the  passing  stranger's  sigh. 
Grim  Revolution  bore  away, 
With  gory  hand  their  trappings  gay, 
And  gloom  and  ruin  frowning  stride, 
Where  gentle  streamlets  gaily  glide. 

Unchanged  those  streamlets  wander  on, 

As  bright  as  when  their  waters  blue, 
Reflected  ROLLA'S  features  wan, 

When  flying  from  PIZARRO'S  crew ! 
They  murmur  yet  a  tale  of  wo, 

In  many  a  sympathizing  ear ; 
Of  patriot  true — of  vengeful  foe — 

Of  pride,  of  sorrow,  hope  and  fear  ! 

Her  Plaza,  where  bright  fountains  play, 
And  sweet  mantilla'd  maidens  stray ; 
Their  beauties  veiled  save  flashing  eye, 
Which  glitters  like  a  star  on  high, 
Peering  from  out  a  sable  cloud, 
When  hand  of  tempest  parts  its  shrouJ  ; 
But  let  that  cloudy  veil  be  rent, 
On  heavenly  charms  the  gaze  is  bent ! 


O,  Lima  !  though  thy  sons  decay, 

There  was  a  day  when  war's  alarm 
Could  'neath  a  daring  Holla's  sway, 

With  valor  nerve  each  patriot's  arm  ! 
'T  is  true  that  day  hath  long  been  past, 

And  earthquake,  famine,  pestilence, 
Have  o'er  thy  soil  their  shadows  cast, 

And  borne  thy  martial  spirit  hence  ! 

'Tis  night — soft,  gentle  breezes  sigh, 
And  whisper  through  my  lattice  high ; 
The  round  moon  climbs  above  the  hills, 
And  views  her  sister  in  the  rills  ; — 
Her  golden  light  is  gaily  thrown 
On  many  a  quaint  and  crumbling  stone, 
On  ruined  bastion,  keep,  and  wall, 
Her  beams  of  glory  softly  fall ! 

The  bright-eyed  stars  are  looking  down, 

Serene  and  sweet  on  hill  and  plain  ; 
Perchance  fair  angels'  heads  they  crown, 

Who  gaze  upon  this  land  in  pain ; 
For  could  they  softly,  sweetly  smile, 

On  country  steeped  in  blood  and  sin, 
Where  man,  God's  noblest  works  defile, 

Nor  seek  immortal  joys  to  win  ! 



Strange  voices  meet  my  listening  ear, 
Senora's  notes,  low,  soft  and  clear  ; 
From  gloomy  church  the  chiming  bell, 
Rings  for  departing  hours  the  knell ; 
While  night  patrols  with  measured  tread, 
And  armoured  leader  at  their  head, 
At  intervals  pace  slowly  by, 
Awaking  echo  with  their  cry. 


STERN,  cheerless,  sullen  Winter  reigns, 
And  wraps  in  pearly  robe  the  plains ; 
The  laughing  streamlets,  once  so  gay, 
Forget  the  sweet  and  joyous  lay 
They  sung  to  Spring's  delighted  ear, 
When  earth  was  green  and  skies  were  clear ; 
But  moan  within  their  icy  cells, 
Like  one  who  in  a  prison  dwells  ! 

Gone,  gone  are  Summer's  blushing  flowers, 
And  gone  are  Autumn's  yellow  hours, 
Gone  like  the  vision  childhood  weaves, 
More  lovely  than  Autumnal  leaves ; 
Gone  like  the  strain  of  those  we  love, 
Who  dwell  amid  the  stars  above, 
And  like  that  vision,  or  that  strain, 
Their  memories  alone  remain  ! 



'Tis  solemn  in  the  forests  wide, 
When  sheltered  by  some  maple's  side, 
To  list  the  wind's  unearthly  roar, 
Like  ocean  on  its  lonely  shore  ; 
For  fancy,  mid  that  anthem  grand, 
Hears  voices  from  the  spirit  land, 
And  memory's  sharp,  envenomed  sting 
Comes  borne  upon  the  tempest's  wing! 

The  gentle  voice  of  one  most  dear, 
Again  is  sounding  in  my  ear ; 
But  changed  those  soft  and  silvery  strains, 
That  thrilled  with  joy  my  boyish  veins ; 
Changed  like  the  bright  and  sylph-like  form, 
Which  like  a  rainbow  mid  the  storm, 
Shone  on  my  path  in  sorrow's  hour, 
A  quenchless  light — a  fadeless  flower  ! 


POOR,  fallen,  buried  CALLAO! 
Thou  sleepst  the  sullen  deep  below, 
And  frigates  sail  Whose  banners  wave) 
Unheeding  o'er  thy  Watery  grave  ! 
Above,  the  thundering  cannon  roar, 
And  sounds  the  measured  stroke  of  oar ; 
There  the  light  barge  with  snowy  sail, 
Dances  before  the  freshening  gale, 
And  rushes  through  the  waters  bright* 
Like  wild  swan  on  her  wayward  flight; 
There,  too,  in  midnight's  murky  gloom, 
Soft  strains  of  music  o'er  thy  tomb 
Float  plaintive  through  the  muffled  air, 
As  if  they  mourned  the  ruin  there  ; 
But  no  sad  requiem  canst  ihou  hear, 
The  earthquake  sealed  thy  listening  eat ! 
Thou  'st  fallen  low — but  fresh  and  young* 
Like  Phoenix  from  thy  ashes  sprung, 
An  infant  town  hath  met  the  light, 
With  maxy  streets  and  dwellings  white. 



There  pondrous  castle  grimly  towers, 
Beside  the  deep,  with  triple  towers ; 
Whose  lofty  staffs  uphold  to  view, 
The  gorgeous  ensigns  of  Peru. 
Beyond,  fair  LIMA'S  steeples  high, 
White,  glittering,  point  toward  the  sky, 
And  towering  Andes  rears  its  head, 
To  which  embracing  clouds  are  wed, 
Which  wrap  it  as  the  fatal  shroud 
Enwraps  the  tyrant,  vain  and  proud, 
When  felled  by  death's  resistless  blow, 
And  powerless,  sent  to  realms  below  ! 



"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Bum  to  the  socket."  WORDSWORTH. 

'  His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies." 

W.  G.  C.    "  DEATH  op  THE  FIRSTBOKN.' 

I  STAND  beside  the  grave  of  one 

Too  early  doomed  to  fade  and  die, 
As  oft,  before  its  prelude's  done, 
Expires  the  wild  harp's  melody. 
The  summer  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west, 
And  all  the  landscape  in  his  rays  is  dressed. 

It  is  a  spot  of  rest  and  peace, 

And  seems  to  me  a  hallowed  ground, 
Where  spirits,  after  their  release, 

Might  love  to  linger  round ; 
Ere,  with  their  radiant  wings  unfurled,  they  fly 
To  lands  of  life  and  light  beyond  the  sky. 



It  is  a  spot  where  pilgrim's  tread 

Hath  often  crushed  the  floweret  frail, 
As  fell  disease  did  crush  the  dead, 
Beside  whose  grave  they  wail ; 
Whose  strains  drew  tears  from  many  a  weeping  eye, 
The  echo  of  whose  music  ne'er  shall  die. 

Farewell  to  thee,  whose  words  have  oft 

Come  o'er  me  on  the  lonely  main, 
Like  the  sweet  voice,  so  low  and  soft 

Of  her  I  loved  in  vain  ; — 
But  when  the  waves  again  shall  round  me  roar, 
Far  to  thy  resting-place  my  thoughts  shall  soar. 


"  The  wars  are  all  over, 
Our  swords  are  all  idle, 
The  steed  bites  his  bridle, 
The  casques  on  the  wall ! 
There  'a  rest  for  the  rover, 
But  his  armour  is  rusty, 
And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 
As  he  yawns  in  the  hall ! 
He  drinks— but  what's  drinking? 
A  mere  pause  from  thinking, 
No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life  and  death  call !" 


A  BLEAK  and  rugged  tract  of  land, 

Lashed  by  the  wide  Pacific's  waves  ; 
And  peopled  by  a  hardy  band, 

Who  hold  the  Indian  tribe  as  slaves ; 
Where  oft  is  heard  the  panther's  howl, 
And  oft  the  angry  bison's  growl : 
From  our  dear  homes  'tis  far  away, — 
This  land  is  California  ! 

Upon  the  coast,  a  lovely  bay 
Invites  the  stranger's  lengthened  stay  ; 
'T  is  there  the  hunter  spends  his  gain, 
And  often  dies  a  death  of  pain  ; 



'T  is  there  the  Spaniard  carols  gay. 
And  chaunts  the  praise  of  Monterey, 
Which  from  our  land  is  far  away, 
In  Upper  California ! 

Some  bold  adventurers  from  our  land, 
Had  settled  on  this  heathen  strand, 
And  sought  to  live  a  life  of  peace, 
As  hunters  of  the  panther  fierce  ; 
But  Spaniards,  jealous  of  their  gain, 
Pretended  that  they  wished  to  reign, 
Alcalda's  o'er  the  people  gay, 
Of  lonely  California ! 

So  some  to  Mexico  they  sent, 
And  tried  them  for  their  lives  misspent ; 
While  some  were  forced  to  toil  in  mines, 
Within  the  mountains'  dark  confines ; 
But  soon  the  tidings  spread  afar, 
The  Mexican's  prepared  for  war, 
And  JONES  resolved  without  delay, 
To  capture  California ! 

'T  was  on  a  bright  autumnal  day, 
A  frigate  ploughed  her  lonely  way, 
Along  the  heaving  waters  wide, — 
She  was  her  distant  country's  pride ; 


'T  was  vain,  alas !  to  dream  of  fight, 
So  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Commissioners,  without  delay. 
Hurried  on  board,  their  court  to  pay  ; 
And  after  gazing  on  the  power, 
Ready  to  crush  their  mud- walled  tower, 
They  said  they  'd  yield — alack  !  the  day, 
The  whole  of  California  ! 

The  sun  arose  in  splendor  bright, 
The  hardy  soldiers  took  to  flight, 
Their  number,  twenty-five  had  been, 
But  ere  the  morn,  full  seventeen, 


Had  battled  oft  with  Albion's  power, 
And  oft  her  meteor  flag  had  lowered, 
And  now,  the  murderer's  hand  to  stay, 
She's  bound  to  California ! 

The  sun  was  shining  bright  and  free, 
On  hill,  and  fort,  and  forest  tree, 
When  this  proud  ship  appeared  in  view, 
And  soon  to  ALVARADO  flew 
Orders  to  quit  his  puny  hold, 
And  yield  the  town  to  Jones  the  bold ; 
And  that  he  must,  ere  dawn  of  day, 
Surrender  California ! 




To  save  their  lives,  had  ran  away, 
And  lived  to  fight  "another  day," 
So  at  the  dawn  but  eight  they  say, 
Defended  California ! 

They  marched  out,  devoid  of  fear, 
A  bull-dog  fierce  brought  up  the  rear ; 
And  as  they  left  their  valued  fort, 
Where  many  a  rogue  did  once  resort ; 
Our  "storming"  parties  gained  the  shore, 
And  the  tri-color  flew  no  more  : 
The  stars  and  stripes  that  sunny  day, 
Waved  free  o'er  California  ! 

And  now  that  justice  hath  been  done, 
Now  that  a  bloodless  victory 's  won ; 
Before  December's  wind  shall  blow, 
And  mantled  be  yon  hills  with  snow ; 
Before  the  gale  shrieks  loud  and  long, 
Through  leafless  trees  its  wintry  song ; 
'T  is  time  to  bid  adieu  my  lay 
And  conquered  California ! 


LOVELY  and  wild  it  rears  its  head, 
In  grandeur  from  its  ocean  bed ; 
Whose  azure  surges  round  it  roll, 
Where  playful  natives  gaily  stroll, 
And  gambol  in  its  snowy  spray, 
When  slowly  sinks  the  god  of  day  ; 
And  the  bright  clouds  of  varied  hue, 
Seem  fitting  home  for  lovers  true, 
Fond  lovers  who  on  earth  were  parted, 
But  met  above,  still  faithful  hearted  ; 
Smiling  as  smiles  that  sunset  sky, 
When  shades  of  eve  come  flitting  by  ! 

The  inland  peaks  that  tower  on  high, 
In  grandeur  toward  the  sunny  sky  ; 
The  gleaming  valleys,  bright  and  green, 
The  verdant  landscape's  glowing  sheen  ; 
The  rude,  uncouth,  and  clay-built  huts, 
Among  the  groves  of  cocoanuts, 
Where  the  red  savage  tunes  his  lay, 
And  sings  of  many  a  warlike  fray ; 

56  OAHU. 

Along  the  beach  the  lofty  trees, 
That  rustle  in  the  passing  hreeze, 
Unfold  a  scene  so  soft  and  fair, 
It  well  might  soothe  the  heart  of  care  ! 

The  shades  of  eve  are  drawing  on, 
The  queen  of  night  is  rising  wan, 
And  throws  her  pale  and  spectral  light, 
Upon  the  cold  grey  mountains  height ; 
Our  anchored  frigate  side  by  side, 
With  Albion's  "wooden  walls"  doth  ride, 
And  oft  the  carols  of  her  crew, 
Come  floating  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
Against  the  coraled  echoing  shore, 
The  billows  madly  chafe  and  roar, 
And  every  burning  lamp  of  night, 
Is  imaged  in  the  ocean  bright ! 

Hark  to  the  sweet  and  thrilling  strain, 
That  sweeps  along  the  raven  main, 
From  England's  warlike,  floating  tower, 
That  bears  aloft  the  flag  of  power  ! 
Doth  not  that  wild  and  plaintive  air, 
Recall  the  hours  of  childhood  fair  ? 
'T  is  hushed — ah  !  that  we  could  but  weep  ; 
The  evening  gun  booms  o'er  the  deep, 
And  o'er  that  deep  doth  loudly  ring, 
Solemn  and  grand,  "  God  save  the  King," 
Then  all  is  hushed  save  chime  of  bell, 
As  sentinels  repeat,  "  all 's  well !" 


"  Thus  to  the  elements  he  poured  his  last  Good  Night." 


FAREWELL,  farewell,  my  own  green  land, 

Thou  'rt  sinking  in  the  wide,  dark  sea  ; 
Like  sentinels  thy  beacons  stand 

To  point  the  home  of  Liberty ; 
And  when  the  stranger's  soil  I  tread, 

And  stranger  tones  are  in  mine  ear, 
No  sigh  shall  rise,  no  tear  be  shed, 

But  hope  my  wandering  barque  shall  steer. 

Why  should  I  weep  to  leave  the  spot  . 

Where  dwell  sweet  joys  I  ne'er  can  claim  ? 
Soon  shall  I  be  by  all  forgot, 

For  ''what  is  friendship  but  a  name?"! 
And  though  my  wayward  feet  should  roam 

Where  Grecian  Islands  softly  smile, 
Far  from  my  loved,  my  childhood's  home, 

Or  where  the  palm  trees  shade  the  Nile, — 



I  '11  bear  with  me,  where  'er  I  stray, 

For  those  from  whom  chill  sorrow's  hand 
Hath  torn  the  flowers  of  life  away, 

A  tear.    But  now  a  radiant  band 
Of  glorious  hopes  are  hovering  by, 

And  thoughts  as  bright  as  gilded  clouds 
That  bask  along  the  summer  sky, 

Rush  gaily  through  my  mind  in  crowds. 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  forest  land  ! 

While  thou  art  fading  from  my  sight, 
Farewell  is  waved  by  fairy  hand, 

Far,  far  beyond  yon  mountain  bright, 
On  which  the  westering  sun  hath  set, 

Like  crown  on  haughty  monarch's  head, 
And  fair  young  cheeks,  perchance,  are  wet 

With  tears  of  bitter  anguish  shed. 

And  now  thou  'rt  vanished  from  my  view. 

Our  gallant  vessel  ploughs  the  main, 
Whose  outspread  waters  bright  and  blue, 

Smile  as  I  greet  their  waves  again  ; 
And  while  the  night- winds  round  me  moan, 

And  swelling  surges  loudly  roar, 
I  '11  chaunt  in  gay  and  sportive  tone 

A  farewell  to  my  native  shore. 

ADIEU    TO    AMERICA.  59 

The  days  have  fled  when  light  was  shed 

Upon  my  clouded  mind, 
The  flowers  are  dead  which  round  my  head, 

In  joyous  youth  I  twined ; 
But  while  the  sky  is  blue  on  high, 

And  the  bright-eyed  stars  look  down, 
No  more  I  '11  sigh  for  hours  gone  by, 

My  brow  shall  wear  no  frown. 

How  can  we  weep,  while  o'er  the  deep, 

The  breeze  comes  laughing  by, 
While  surges  leap,  and  white  clouds  sweep, 

Along  their  path,  the  sky  ? 
Then  let  us  sing,  and  the  gay  laugh  ring, 

Though  childhood's  dreams  are  o'er, 
While  our  barque's  white  wing,  to  the  gale  we  fling, 

And  speed  from  our  own  green  shore. 


" I  awoka — and  behold !  it  was  a  dream." 

TWAS  night  on  the  main,  and  with  darkness  crowned, 

The  Silence  King,  grim,  was  reigning, 
For  a  cloudy  wreath  round  the  stars  was  bound, 

And  the  crescent  moon  was  waning  ; 
While  locked  in  the  arms  of  unconscious  sleep, 

The  wearied  crew  were  dozing, 
As  with  drooping  wing  on  the  lonely  deep, 

Our  swan-like  barque  was  reposing. 

As  I  lay  in  my  swinging  canvass  cot, 

The  mantle  of  slumber  round  me, 
I  thought  that  some  spirit  had  changed  my  lot, 

And  in  fairy  land  had  bound  me. 
Bright  streamlets  went  singing  upon  their  way, 

And  laurel,  each  bower  shaded, 
While  the  hills  were  robed  in  flowerets  gay, 

Which  no  blast  of  autumn  faded. 

A    DREAM.  61 

Tall  forests  were  waving  whose  deathless  leaves, 

The  rainbow  its  tints  had  given, 
Such  robe  as  the  hand  of  September  weaves, 

With  hues  of  the  walls  of  heaven  ; 
And  the  skies  were  floored  with  the  brightest  green, 

Where  a  gorgeous  throne  was  gleaming, 
There,  with  glory  crowned,  sat  a  peerless  queen, 

Her  eye  like  a  diamond  beaming. 

Like  a  gem  her  brow  all  radiant  shone, 

Though  by  raven  curtains  shaded, 
And  her  notes,  like  sweet  aeolian  tone, 

Softly  my  bosom  invaded  ; 
An  eagle  was  perched  on  her  golden  throne, 

With  his  shady  pinions  o'er  her. 
And  the  lightning's  fire  in  his  bright  eye  shone, 

As  I  trembling  knelt  before  her. 

She  spoke,  and  her  voice,  like  the  breath  of  Spring, 

Bore  the  odor  of  early  flowers, 
Which  the  soft  winds  brush  with  a- playful  wing, 

And  sprinkle  in  fragrant  showers. 
Thou  hast  roamed  from  a  shore  where  Pride  and  Wrong 

With  sceptred  power  art  reigning, 
To  the  lovely  and  blooming  land  of  song, 

That  cold  hearted  world  disdaining. 

62  A    DREAM. 

Thou  hast  found  a  fair  and  a  blooming  Queen, 

And  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  beauty ; 
Thou  hast  worshipped  the  glowing  landscape's  sheen, 

And  traversed  the  path  of  duty  ; 
And  now  in  a  bright  and  fairy  land, 

Thou  shalt  rest  in  an  angel's  bower, 
Bright  Fancy's  pencil  I  place  in  thy  hand, 

May  it  soothe  thy  loneliest  hour. 

Thy  name  shall  be  borne  on  the  wild  wind's  wing, 

Where  far  distant  lands  are  gleaming, 
And  fair  maidens  thy  lays  shall  sweetly  sing, 

When  thine  eye  no  more  is  beaming  ; 
Thou  shalt  roam  through  the  blooming  land  of  song, 

And  gather  its  brightest  flowers, 
Thou  shalt  have  the  tears  of  the  world's  gay  throng, 

When  the  cloud  of  sorrow  lowers." 

Breathless  I  listened — but  her  voice  no  more, 

Like  a.Spirit-Harp  was  ringing, 
No  sound  met  my  ear  save  the  Ocean's  roar, 

And  the  sea  birds  wildly  singing. 
As  our  frigate  trampled  the  midnight  waves, 

The  storm  sexton,  waked  from  slumber, 
Was  abroad  in  his  lone  field  digging  graves, 

For  the  sons  of  men  to  cumber. 


I'M  gazing  on  the  Evening  Star, 

The  star  of  joy,  and  hope,  and  love  ; 
Which,  in  its  radiant  home  afar, 

Through  Heaven's  veil,  looks  from  above, 
Upon  a  world  below  it  spread, 

Where  sin,  and  care,  and  grief  are  rife, 
And  myriads  roam  with  thoughtless  tread, 

Along  the  dusty  road  of  life. 

Bright  orb  !  how  oft  I  've  seen  thy  light 

Enkindled  in  the  eastern  sky, 
When  life  to  me  was  young  and  bright, 

And  all  was  fair  before  my  eye. 
Thou  wert  the  guardian  natal  star 

That  shone  upon  my  hour  of  birth, 
And  when  in  glowing  lands  afar, 

I  *ve  hailed  with  joy  thy  glance  of  mirth. 


When  Time  was  young,  ere  sorrow  came, 

And  seamed  his  fair  and  sunny  brow, 
Thy  quenchless,  pure,  and  glowing  flame, 

Shone  brightly  on  the  earth  as  now, 
Beside  his  flock  the  Chaldean 

Gazed  wistful  on  thy  distant  glow, 
And  sought  thy  mystic  lore  to  scan, 

Thousands  of  weary  years  ago. 

A  host  swept  o'er  the  Alpine  heights, 

Its  leader  cast  his  eagle  eye 
Upon  the  myriad  burning  lights, 

Suspended  from  the  circling  sky, 
But  thou  didst  claim  his  fondest  glance, 

A  smile  passed  o'er  his  brow  of  gloom, 
Thou  sawst  him  on  the  throne  of  France, 

But  now  art  shining  on  his  tomb  ! 

Thy  burning  glance  is  mirrored  now, 

Within  the  wild  and  lonely  main, 
As  swift  our  sharp,  relentless  prow 

Cuts  the  blue  watery  field  in  twain. 
Bright  gem  of  Heaven  !  still  mayst  thou  shine 

To  light  the  path  before  my  eye, 
I  hail  thee  as  a  glorious  sign 

That  brighter  lands  before  me  lie  ! 


WE  are  passing  away — passing  away, 

To  the  far-off  Spirit-land; 
Like  autumn  leaves,  the  moody,  the  gay, 

A  many-sorrowed  band ; 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

To  a  dim  and  shadowy  clime, 
Like  countless  bubbles  we  onward  stray 

Adown  the  stream  of  time ; 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

We  are  passing  away — passing  away, 

And  yet  we  heed  it  not ; 
Our  fellow  bubbles  sink ;  we  play, 

Nor  mourn  the  lost  one's  lot ; 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 


We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

Our  suns  grow  brief  and  pale, 
Like  cheerless  suns  of  a  wintry  day, 

That  rise— and  quickly  fail. 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away ! 

We  are  passing  away — passing  away 

To  join  the  lost  and  fair, 
Who,  on  the  verge  of  the  Bright  Land,  stray, 

To  journey  with  us  there  ; 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

We  are  passing  away — passing  away 

From  many  a  flower-hid  snare, 
Where  man  his  brother  leads  astray, 

And  leaves  him  weeping  there ; 
We  are  passing  away — passing  away  ! 

We  are  passing  away — passing  away, 

We  trust  to  a  brighter  clime ; 
Let  us  rear  a  pile  that  shall  ne'er  decay 

Beside  each  snare  of  Time, 
To  warn  those  who  follow  to  bear  away  ! 


'T  WAS  evening,  and  Niagara's  tide 

Like  giant  serpent  crawling, 
Its  varnished  skin,  in  moonbeams  dyed, 

With  hissing  voice  was  calling, 
Upon  the  cataract  below, 

Which  hoarsely  was  replying. 
E'en  thus  when  fiery  rivers  flow 
Along  the  sky,  and  with  their  glow, 
The  black  couch  of  the  thunderer  show, 

We  hear  his  stern  voice  crying. 

It  was  a  night  of  loveliness, 

A  white  cloud  had  been  veiling 
The  moon,  but  now,  with  silvery  dress 

Athwart  the  sky  was  sailing ; — 
The  bright  eyed  sentinels  that  stand, 

Upon  the  walls  of  Heaven, 
In  glittering  robes,  a  radiant  band, 
With  myriad  wings  the  forest  fanned, 
Whose  branches  whispered  of  a  land, 

Where  endless  joys  are  given. 

68  A    NIGHT    ON    THE    NIAGARA. 

It  was  a  night  of  loveliness, 

A  shallop,  old  reclining 
Beside  the  shore,  seemed  in  distress, 

Neglected  and  repining ; 
Upon  her  thwart  I  set  me  down, 

And  watched  the  gliding  water, 
That  sparkled  like  a  Monarch's  crown, 
And  clustered  trees,  whose  shadows  brown, 
Lay  on  the  landscape,  like  a  frown 

On  cheek  of  beauty's  daughter. 

Before  me  soon,  a  vision  rose, 

An  Eden  landscape  glowing, 
Like  that  which  some  magician  shows, 

All  red  with  roses  blowing ; 
Where  flashing  like  a  sunbeam  swift, 

Bright  rainbow-tinted  wings  did  quiver, 
But  soon  the  fairy-land  did  drift 
Like  cloud  away,  the  scene  did  shift, 
I  woke,  and  found  myself  adrift 

Upon  the  rushing  river ! 

Oarless,  adown  the  current  went 

That  boat  and  I  together, 
As  from  their  boughs  red  leaves  are  rent, 

In  Autumn's  stormy  weather ! 

A    NIGHT    ON    THE    NIAGARA. 


Now  in  some  whirling  eddy  borne, 
Now  bending  tree-tops  under, 

And  all  the  time  from  silver  throne, 

As  if  in  mockery,  on  me  shone 

The  Queen  of  Night — and  solemn — lone, 
Arose  the  cataract's  thunder ! 

Down,  down  we  flew  ! — no  help  was  near, 

Dark  clouds  came  o'er  the  water, 
As  the  black  wings  of  Death  appear 

O'er  crimsoned  field  of  slaughter ! 
I  thought  upon  my  early  doom, 

Of  hopes  once  brightly  glowing 
The  golden  skies  now  hid  in  gloom, 
And  still  the  cataract's  solemn  boom, 
Came  like  a  message  from  the  tomb — 

"  To  Spirit-Land  thou'rt  going  !  " 

0  how  the  scenes  of  early  days, 

With  Memory's  wings,  came  round  me  ! 
It  seemed  as  if  some  gentle  Fays 

In  dreamy  spell  had  bound  me. 
Fond  ones  were  by  my  side  once  more, 

Their  eyes  with  kindness  beaming, 
And  '  mong  them  her  who  ever  wore 
For  me  a  smile.  The  cataract's  roar, 
Grew  louder — but  on  island  shore 

I  saw  a  beacon  streaming. 


A    NIGHT    ON    THE    NIAGARA. 

My  boat  drew  near  that  rocky  isle, 

Which  for  a  moment  caught  her  ; 
That  rugged  island  still  doth  smile 

Amid  the  boiling  water ; 
For,  on  its  crags,  with  nimble  feet, 

Like  frighten'd  deer  I  darted, 
While  downward,  on  its  course  so  fleet, 
As  porpoises  at  sea  retreat 
Toward  the  storm — so  Death  to  greet, 

That  boat  flew  as  we  parted. 


SHE  is  fading,  slowly  fading 

From  our  vision  now  ; 
DEATH  a  cypress  wreath  is  braiding 

For  that  marble  brow  ; 
But  the  lingering  soul  still  gazes     . 

Through  that  dark  blue  eye, 
As  the  sun,  departing,  blazes 

Through  the  western  sky. 

She  is  fading,  lading  slowly 

From  our  sight  away  ; 
In  the  cold  grave,  dark  and  lowly, 

She  must  soon  decay. 
On  that  cheek  the  red  is  flushing 

For  a  moment  brief, 
Like  the  hues  of  autumn  blushing 

On  the  falling  leaf. 


O'er  that  couch  where  friends  are  sigjring, 

DEATH,  with  raven  wings, 
Like  a  cormorant  is'flying, 

And  a  dirge  he  sings  ! 
She  is  fading,  fading  slowly, 

Finished  is  her  course  ; 
In  the  church-yard,  dark  and  lowly, 

Lies  that  maiden's  corse  ! 


FAIR  Eden  of  the  Southern  sea, 
Majestic,  lovely  Owyhee ! 
Here  deathless  summer,  robed  in  flowers, 
Sits  smiling  in  thy  orange  bowers, 
Whose  branches  intertwined  with  leaves, 
Impervious  roofs  of  emerald  weave, 
Through  which  the  sun,  with  armour  bright, 
Hath  never  shot  a  shaft  of  light ; 
Where  golden  fruits  attract  the  eye, 
And  scent  the  breezes  passing  by, 
Which  bend  the  cocoa  trees  aside, 
Where  laughing  streamlets  gaily  glide, 
Discovering  half  secreted  cots, 
Cool  fountains,  rivulets  and  grots, 
And  nameless  unfrequented  mounds, 
Which  leaden  mystery  surrounds  ! 

Each  verdant  hill,  fair  Nature's  fane, 
That  stoops  to  kiss  the  slumbering  main. 




Is  studded  thick  with  forests  green, 
And  native  huts  the  trees  between, 
Where  white  cascades  at  sunset  play, 
And  lull  the  drowsy  ear  of  day, 
Oft  catch  the  hues  of  evening's  crest, 
That  glow  along  the  painted  west: 
Or  lift  their  voices  mimicked  tone, 
In  towering  wood  and  cavern  lone, 
Where  echo  soft  repeats  their  song, 
As  o'er  bright  sands  they  glide  along  ; 
And  infant  breezes  waked  from  sleep, 
Flit  lightly  o'er  the  moaning  deep, 
And  beat  unto  rny  raptuied  ear, 
Their  gentle  music,  soft  and  clear  ! 

Day  slowly  wanes — the  crimson  sun, 

His  race  along  the  sky  hath  run, 

And  sinks  behind  the  mountains  blue, 

Bidding  the  sombre  world  adieu  ; 

But  still  his  golden  path  is  seen, 

Till  evening  drops  her  sable  screen, 

Before  the  gaily  curtained  bed, 

Where  he  hath  laid  his  weary  head  ; 

Then,  through  the  raven  pall  of  night, 

The  ghostly  moon  emits  her  light, 

And  palid  stars  peer  through  the  clouds, 

Like  wandering  spectres  through  their  shrouds  ; 



While  dewdrops  gem  the  flowerets  meek, 
Like  tears  on  weeping  beauty's  cheek, 
Which  gentle  zephyr's  unseen  wings, 
Brush  from  the  rose  to  which  they  cling  ? 

Thy  glimmering,  lurid  light  I  see, 
Volcanic,  towering  MONA  KEY  ! 
A  beacon  shining  o'er  the  wave, 
To  cheer  the  pathway  of  the  brave ; 
Who  oft  thy  ruddy  blaze  shalt  hail, 
And  spread  his  canvass  to  the  gale, 
That  speeds  him  to  the  fragrant  isle, 
Where  dusky,  sunny  women  smile, 
And  on  the  shore  with  open  hand, 
Bid  strangers  welcome  to  their  land ; 
Or  plunge  like  Naiads  in  the  stream, 
That  mirrors  morning's  rosiest  beam  ; 
Or  roam  beneath  the  cocoa's  shade, 
With  cheeks  that  ne'er  with  illness  fade, 
And  peerless  eyes  that  softly  shine, 
Like  angel  eyes  in  world  divine  ! 

Lamented  COOK,  of  wide  renown  ! 
Here  thy  last  sun  of  life  went  down, 
But  still  bright  halos  mark  his  flight, 
From  dewy  morn  to  gory  night ! 

76  OWYHEE. 

In  warfare,  daring,  reckless,  wild, 

In  policy— a  fickle  child, 

Thy  rashness  caused  thy  blood  to  pour, 

And  bathe  Owyhee's  sands  in  gore  ! 

No  shout  of  armies  rent  the  skies, 

As  when  some  fallen  tyrant  dies; 

No  cannon's  thundering  voice  was  heard- 

No  courser  to  the  charge  was  spurred, 

But  all  a  smiling  aspect  wore, 

On  azure  deep  and  emerald  shore, 

While  thou  upon  the  crimsoned  plain, 

By  savage  hands  was  pierced  and  slain  ! 


SPEAK  kindly  of  each  faded  one, 

That's  joined  the  dreamless  dead  ; 
By  them  is  heard  your  lightest  tone, 

Your  inmost  soul  is  read : 
Their  spirits  fill  the  viewless  air, 

Unseen,  but  ever  near ; 
In  midnight  dark,  in  noonday's  glare, 

Each  unkind  word  they  hear. 

Speak  kindly — 'twere  an  awful  thing 

That  one  on  earth  belied, 
Who  bravely  soared  with  wounded  wing 

Above  affliction's  tide — 
His  worth  and  goodness  all  unknown, 

A  son  of  Grief  and  Care, 
When  sleeping  in  the  churchyard  lone, 

Should  hear  us  wrong  him  there  ! 



Speak  softly,  gently  of  the  dead  ! 

The  land  to  which  they're  gone, 
Perchance  ourselves  we  soon  shall  tread, 

Like  them  with  features  wan. 
Then  'twere  a  painful  thing  to  hear — 

As  we  unseen  of  men, 
Roam  mid  the  scenes  in  life  so  dear — 

Our  memories  wronged  by  them  ! 

The  summer  air  that  floats  along, 

Is  scenled  with  the  breath 
Of  spirits ;  and  like  plaintive  song 

Of  swan  at  hour  of  death, 
I  hear  their  voices  when  alone 

At  twilight  hour  I  roam, 
Like  music  round  celestial  throne, 

Where  seraphs  have  their  home. 

I  never  can  reveal  the  song 

They  sing — the  tales  they  tell — 
For  airy  beings  round  me  throng, 

And  bind  me  with  a  spell ; 
But  of  the  pale,  all-seeing  dead, 

Speak  gently,  softly,  kind, 
And  joy  shall  hover  round  your  head, 

And  heal  your  wounded  mind. 


THE  memories  of  our  childhood's  hours, 

Tenacious  cling  around  the  heart, 
As  wreaths  of  freshly  gathered  flowers, 

Refuse  from  beauty's  brow  to  part ; 
Though  CARE  and  GRIEF  should  ruthless  seize, 

And  tear  the  fragrant  leaves  away, 
As  AUTUMN  strips  the  forest  leaves, 

The  hardy  flowers  yet  will  stay. 

They  stay  to  scent  our  wintry  days, 

When  all  on  earth  beside  has  fled, 
As  oft  the  rose  its  form  displays, 

Above  the  spot  where  rests  the  dead, 
Amid  the  storm,  the  battle's  din, 

When  swiftly  bolts  of  VENGEANCE  fly, 
As  toward  some  planet  steeped  in  sin 

Wild  meteors  cleave  the  midnight  sky. 


The  memories  of  our  childhood's  hours, 

Still  linger  round  to  shield  the  heart, 
When  stern  MISFORTUNE  frowning  lowers, 

And  shakes  on  high  his  burnished  dart, 
Like  strain  that  wakes  us  from  our  sleep, 

When  sweetly  o'er  Eolian  string, 
The  midnight  breezes  softly  creep, 

The  robe  of  joy  they  o'er  us  fling . 


THE  Spirit  of  departed  Day, 
Sat  gaily  on  her  golden  throne, 

Behind  the  clouds,  far,  far  away, 
While  redly  through  them  shone, 

Her  blushes,  as  through  veil  of  lace, 

The  rose  is  seen  on  Beauty's  face. 

The  radiant  armies  of  the  sky 

Were  mustering  in  their  painted  field, 

Beneath  the  stern  and  martial  eye 
Of  Mars,  whose  gleaming  shield, 

Was  imaged  on  Owasco's  breast, 

Upon  whose  shore  I  lay  at  rest. 

'T  was  Autumn,  and  the  evening  breeze, 
Like  moans  of  maiden  when  she  grieves, 

Came  softly,  brushing  from  the  trees 
Their  rainbow  tinted  leaves, 

And  said  "go  lingerers !  join  the  band 

That  bloom  afresh  in  Spirit-Land  !" 




O  never  was  the  purple  tent 
Of  evening  spread  above  a  place, 

Where  Nature's  bounteous  hand  hath  bent 
Such  soft  and  verdant  grace  ; — 

A  fitting  spot  for  angel's  home 

When  to  the  earth  on  duty  come  ! 

Low  stoop  the  gentle  hills  to  meet 
That  blue,  and  tranquil  tide, 

Along  its  breast  with  flowing  sheet, 
White  pinioned  vessels  glide, 

Noiseless  as  spirits  on  their  way 

To  the  far  sky  at  dawn  of  day  ! 

The  golden-robed  and  glorious  sun 
That  wanders  through  the  fields  of  air, 

Since  first  his  pilgrimage  begun, 
Ne'er  saw  a  gem  so  rare, 

As  that  bright  lake,  far  in  the  west, 

That  glitters  on  Cayuga's  breast ! 

Alas  !  that  on  such  lovely  shore, 
The  midnight  murderer's  stealthy  tread, 

Should  stain  its  pearly  snows  with  gore, 
From  mangled  victims  shed  ! 

Alas !  that  wail  of  wild  despair 

Should  Echo  wake  in  vale  so  fair  ! 



Amid  the  old  and  clustered  trees 

Upon  that  blue  lake's  western  strand, 

With  pensive  eye  the  traveller  sees 
A  lonely  cottage  stand  ; 

That  rural  spot  the  fearful  scene, 

Of  midnight  murder  foul  hath  been. 

The  wintry  earth  lay  cold  and  pale 
Beneath  its  muffled  shroud  of  snow, 

And  o'er  the  hills  the  northern  gale 
Came  with  a  voice  of  wo  ; 

Like  wail  amid  the  forest  gray, 

Of  pilgrim  who  hath  lost  his  way. 

But  in  that  cot,  devoid  of  care 
The  fated  ones  serenely  slept, 

While  through  the  woodland,  old  and  bare 
A  sable  miscreant  crept, 

And  with  his  keen  and  piercing  knife, 

Bereft  the  family  of  life. 

They  laid  them  in  one  common  grave, 
The  sire,  the  matron,  and  the  child, 

Upon  a  hill  where  sadly  rave 
The  night  winds  weird  and  wild  ; 

A  lonely  hill  that  gazes  o'er, 

Owasco's  green  and  fertile  shore. 

84  OWASCO. 

I've  stood  beside  their  silent  tomb 
When  sadly  sighed  the  Autumn  blast, 

And  fancied  mid  the  twilight-gloom 
Weird  forms  were  flitting  past, 

That  cries  came  from  the  mangled  dead, 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  bright  Owasco's  lovely  vale 
Is  distant  now,  far,  far  from  me, 

Though  rudely  howls  the  northern  gale 
Along  the  furrowed  sea  ; 

Fond  memory  oft  recalls  the  hours, 

I  've  spent  among  her  sylvan  bowers. 



As  on  our  frigate  takes  her  flight, 
A  distant  island  greets  my  sight, 
Which  peers  its  rocky  head  on  high, 
And  looks  into  the  summer  sky. 
The  genius  of  DE  FOE  has  thrown, 
Around  the  spot  so  wild  and  lone, 
A  robe  that  chains  the  raptured  glance, 
Wove  by  the  hand  of  fair  romance  ! 

How  oft  when  life  was  fresh  and  young, 
O'er  CRUSOE'S  page  entranced  I  hung, 
Till  evening  in  her  dusky  car, 
Rolled  o'er  the  western  hills  afar, 
And  bade  me  seek  my  restless  bed, 
From  which  in  dreams  by  fancy  led, 
I  wandered  to  fair  Juan's  shore, 
And  heard  the  lone  Pacific  roar ! 


Not  through  the  dreamer's  misty  veil, 
I  now  thy  lofty  mountains  hail, 
But  bright  before  my  gazing  eye, 
They  lift  their  heads  to  kiss  the  sky ; 
While  headlong  from  its  craggy  steep, 
Full  many  a  white  cascade  doth  leap, 
Half  seen  when  trees  are  bent  aside, 
As  wild  winds  through  the  forest  stride  ! 

Here  SELKIRK  left  his  ocean  home, 
No  more  the  briny  fields  to  roam  ; 
And  like  the  Eremites  of  old, 
Sought  out  a  lone  and  rocky  hold : 
But  to  the  winds  that  passed  his  cave, 
He  soon  his  lamentations  gave, 
And  found  a  life  of  solitude 
At  best,  was  sorrowing,  wild  and  rude  ! 

A  life  of  solitude  ?  how  vain 
The  wish  such  bauble  to  obtain ; 
For  man  will  soon  companion  find 
With  him  life's  loneliest  path  to  wind  ! 
Some  flower  he  loved  in  childhood's  day, 
Will  rise  and  scent  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  that  in  the  tempest  wave, 
Like  him,  are  pilgrims  to  the  grave  ! 



A  life  of  solitude  ?  each  bird, 
Whose  little  song  at  eve  is  heard, 
Proclaims  in  accents  soft  and  sweet, 
From  comrades  there  is  no  retreat. 
Though  we  should  find  some  secret  glen, 
That  never  felt  the  tread  of  men, 
And  never  echoed  human  voice, 
Such  lonely  spot  is  Nature's  choice  ! 

And  there  she  stands  amid  the  trees, 

Her  voice  the  Autumn's  whispering  breeze ; 

Her  hair  the  pine's  unfading  tress, 

The  flowery  earth  her  spangled  dress. 

And  should  we  leave  our  race  behind, 

To  seek  the  goal  for  which  we  've  pined  ; 

On  us  her  bright  and  starry  eye, 

Peers  downward  through  the  vaulted  sky  ! 

And  could  we  roam  the  viewless  air, 

The  eagle's  pinions  hover  there, 

Or  seek  the  seaman's  watery  grave 

Beneath  the  ever  sleepless  wave ; 

The  tenants  of  the  sullen  deep, 

Beside  our  slimy  path  would  keep, 

And  lead  perchance  with  finny  hand, 

The  wandering  stranger  through  their  land  ; 


Where  foundered  barks  are  thickly  sown, 
With  seaweed  tresses  o'er  them  grown, 
Where  rainbow  painted  dolphins  play, 
And  steel  jawed  sharks  dart  warily ; 
Where  piles  of  gold  repose  unknown, 
And  countless  treasures  round  are  thrown, 
On  whitening  beds  of  human  bones, 
Which  thither  sink  when  tempest  moans  ! 

Adieu  ! — before  the  breezes  free, 
Our  noble  frigate  ploughs  the  sea, 
And  fading  from  my  aching  eye, 
Are  now  thy  plains  and  mountains  high  ! 
But  still  from  memory's  faithful  chart, 
Thy  heavenly  hues  can  ne'er  depart; 
For  every  tint  is  graven  there, 
Indelible  as  those  despair 

Imprints  upon  thy  gloomy  soul, 

When  waves  of  sorrow  o'er  it  roll ; 

When  false  and  summer  friends  have  flown, 

And  left  us  in  the  world  alone, 

To  buffet  with  the  blasts  of  fate, 

Forsaken,  wearied,  desolate. 

Ah  !  then  the  marks  that  care  hath  made, 

Like  Hawii'a  tints  can  never  fade  ! 


"  Ye  stars  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires,  't  is  to  be  forgiven."       » 


YE  diamond  isles  that  gem  the  deep, 

Blue,  waveless,  lake  of  space  ; 
Night  drops  her  curtain  and  ye  peep 

From  out  your  hiding  place, 
For  day,  enwrapped  in  golden  robe, 

Hath  sought  the  crimsoned  west, 
Preceded  by  a  fiery  globe, 

To  light  him  to  his  rest. 

The  night  winds  sound  their  trumpet  call. 

Ye  gather  in  the  sky,    . 
So  mustered  once  the  sons  of  Gaul 

At  stern  Napoleon's  cry ; 
While  Mars,  whose  armor  glitters  bright, 

Reviews  ye  as  ye  meet, 
And  chides  perchance  some  lingering  wight, 

Or  turns  some  friend  to  greet. 



Ye  are  gathered  in  the  field  aloft, 

A  shining  myriad  host, 
Each  one  hath  looked  upon  the  past, 

From  off  his  convex  post, 
And  seen  the  years  go  rolling  by, 

When  time  himself  was  young, 
And  countless  thousands  bloom  and  die, 

And  heard  their  death  knells  rung. 

You  've  heard  the  battle  cry  of  man, 

When  carnage  dyed  the  plain  ; 
You  've  smiled  to  see  the  Chaldean, 

Pour  o'er  your  leaves  in  vain, 
Because  ye  are  a  mystery, 

And  purely,  brightly  shine, 
Behind  the  earth's  blue  canopy, 

To  light  a  world  divine. 

Like  us  ye  have  joys  and  sorrows, 

Your  bright  eyes  beam  with  mirth, 
When  the  snow  cold  nature  borrows, 

To  robe  the  frosty  earth ; 
And  those  bright  eyes  are  gemed  with  tears, 

Which  fall  in  drenching  showers, 
When  Autumn's  rustling  leaves  are  sear, 

And  fade  the  summer  flowers. 



Are  ye  in  truth  the  beaming  eyes, 

Of  dear  departed  friends, 
Who  downward  look  from  Paradise, 

Where  joy  and  rapture  blends  ; 
Who  watchful  still  direct  our  feet, 

In  paths  untrod  by  sin, 
That  we  in  happy  bands  may  meet. 

And  crowns  of  glory  win. 


WHY  shouldst  thou  envy  feel  for  those, 
Within  whose  laps  blind  Fortune  throws, 

In  passing,  wealth  and  power  ? 
More  flowerets  in  their  path  may  bloom, 
More  sunlight  gild  its  clouds  of  gloom, 
But  still  it  leads  unto  the  tomb, 

By  route  direct  as  thine  ; — 
Nor  tinseled  lot,  nor  joyous  bower, 

Can  from  their  vision  hide  the  shine, 
Of  Death's  bright  lance  an  hour  ! 

They  're  journeying  to  a  shadowy  land, 

Where  rank  and  power  is  all  unknown, 
Poor  son  of  toil !  there  Kings  must  stand, 

Likethee,  devoid  of  throne  ! 
The  sculptured  marble  o'er  their  heads, 
May  glimmer  when  the  pale  moon  sheds 
Her  spectral  rays  upon  their  beds, 

But  in  the  earth  below, 
Upon  their  clay,  as  on  thine  own, 

The  hungry  worms  will  feast  and  grow- 
No  favors  there  are  shown  ! 


I  'LI,  think  of  thee,  when  the  sun's  descending, 

On  the  blue  wave's  breast  to  lie, 
When  the  rainbow's  hues  are  softly  blended, 

On  the  flushed  and  bending  sky  ; 
I  '11  think  of  the  hours  we  've  passed  together, 

When  our  hopes  were  fresh  and  young, 
E're  our  sun  was  dimed  by  wintry  weather, 

Or  clouds  before  him  hung ! 

I'll  think  of  thee,  when  the  moon  is  gleaming, 

At  eve  on  the  lone,  deep  sea, 
When  the  bright,  fair  stars  on  high  are  beaming, 

And  when  on  its  mother's  knee, 
The  breeze  in  some  far  off  land  doth  slumber, 

Ere  the  fettered  Storm  is  free, 
I  '11  sit  and  weave  these  idle  numbers, 

My  sister  dear,  for  thee  ! 



I  '11  think  of  thee,  oft  when  loudly  howling, 

Is  the  wide  and  tortured  main  ; 
When  its  placid  face  is  darkly  scowling, 

And  wrinkled  o'er  with  pain  ; 
While  its  back  the  vengeful  Storm-King  lashes, 

And  laughs,  and  shouts  with  glee, 
And  his  eye  with  scorn  and  anger  flashes, 

I  '11  think  my  love,  of  thee  ! 


WHY  weep  for  the  departed  ? 

For  the  captive  spirit  free  ? 
The  loved  ones,  and  true  hearted, 

Who  have  crossed  Life's  wintry  sea  ? 

Ye  say  that  they  have  faded, 
Like  the  early  flowers  of  spring, 

And  that  their  graves  are  shaded 
By  the  willow's  drooping  wing  ; 

That  reptiles  now  are  creeping 

In  the  midnight  dark  and  lone, 
Where  the  friends  ye  loved  are  sleeping, 

Where  the  night-winds  make  their  moan ; 

And  ye  weep  that  youth  and  Beauty 
In  their  bloom  should  thus  decay, 

That  DEATH  should  do  his  duty, 
And  summon  them  away  ! 


Know  ye  not  that  withered  flowers, 
When  the  winter's  storm  are  o'er 

Bloom  again,  in  beauty's  bowers, 
On  the  laughing  streamlet's  shore  ? 

Know  ye  not  that  voiceless  rivers, 
Bound  with  Winter's  icy  chain, 

Bright  rosy  Spring  delivers, 
And  that  they  sing  again  ? 


I'VE  gazed  upon  each  shifting  scene, 

That  decks  the  bloody  stage  of  war, 
Where  slaughter  waves  his  sabre  keen, 

And  guides  his  iron  car, 
0  'er  mangled  wretches  weltering  in  their  gore, 
Far  from  their  childhood's  home  and  native  shore. 

0  war,  grim  war !  thy  hand  is  red 

With  blood  of  many  a  murdered  sage, 
Thy  path  to  deeds  of  crime  has  led 

The  world  in  every  age  ; — 
Thy  waving  plumes,  thy  tinseled,  gilt  attire, 
The  wise,  and  pure  in  heart,  will  ne'er  desire  ! 

Here,  when  the  Leader,  vain  and  proud 

In  glittering  trappings  gaily  shines, 
Where  oft  his  orders  stern  and  loud 
Thrill  through  the  seried  lines ; — 
There  sits  the  widow,  moaning  o'er  the  slain, 
And  helpless  orphans  curse  the  battle  plain  ! 




While  Wellington,  like  butterfly, 

In  London's  circles  gaily  shone, 
Byron  afar  was  doomed  to  sigh, 

An  exile  by  the  arrowy  Rhone. 
And  thus  have  gifted  beings  ever  pined 
While  warrior's  gory  brows  with  wreaths  are  twined  ! 

I  had  a  friend, — a  gentle  boy, 

With  sunny  smile  and  dark  blue  eye, 
His  widowed  mother's  only  joy, 

And  in  her  clouded  sky, 
A  lonely  star,  that  shone  the  brighter  when 
The  rest  hast  ceased  to  gleam  on  Life's  dark  glen. 

But  through  the  land  the  trumpet  rang, 

And  roused  each  gallant  soul  to  arms, 
The  bugle's  wail,  and  sabre's  clang, — 

The  battle's  wild  alarms, 
Was  borne  on  every  breeze  that  wandered  by, 
Glad  to  escape  from  Conflict's  baneful  eye. 

That  gentle  youth  has  left  his  home, 

And  doting  parents  far  behind, 
And  to  the  scene  of  strife  has  come, 

A  warrior's  death  to  find  ! 
Soon,  on  the  gory  field  in  peace  he  slept, 
And  friendship  o'er  his  corse  in  anguish  wept. 


But  who  shall  tell  the  woful  tale, 
The  slaughter  of  that  noble  son, 
To  that  poor  weeping  mother  pale, 

Left  in  the  world  alone  ? 
Who  cheer  her,  in  her  deep  and  sore  distress 
Sad  pilgrim  in  Life's  gloomy  wilderness  ? 



SWEET  girl !  the  hours  since  first  I  met  thee, 

Are  few  at  best, 
But  deeper  have  their  moments  set  thee, 

Within  my  breast: 

Those  few  brief  hours  we've  passed  together, 

Like  flowers  shall  twine, 
Around  my  memory — will  they  ever 

Recur  to  thine  ? 

When  distant  far,  this  still  will  greet  thee, 

My  friendship's  thine, 
And  till  the  golden  hour  I  meet  thee, 

Be  llris  thp  sign  ! 

Sweet  peerless  rose  :  may  sorrow  never, 
Blight  leaves  so  green, 

O  !  would  that  thou  couldst  be  forever 
Just  sweet  sixteen  ! 


OF    THE    4TH    JULY,    1843. 

BRIGHT  orb  of  day  !  thy  pathway  cleaving 

Through  yonder  blue  aerial  sea, 
Bright  robes  of  gold  and  amber  weaving 
To  hide  the  stars  from  me  ; 

Again,  thou  wakesl  the  rosy  morning 
When  Freedom's  hardy,  patriot  band, 

A  foreign  tyrant's  fetters  scorning, 
Redeemed  their  forest  land  i 

Far  distant  from  that  land  of  beauty, 
I  may  not  share  her  children's  joys ; 

Thy  iron  hand,  relentless  Duty  ! 
My  every  hour  employs. 

But  still,  though  absent,  I  can  love  thee, 
My  bright,  iny  green,  my  peerless  shore  ! 

May  every  angel's  hand  above  thee, 
Blessings  upon  the  pour  ! 


I  'LL  think  of  thee  oft,  when  the  red  sun  is  sinking, 

To  rest  in  the  wide  dark  sea — 
When  the  stars  in  their  far  lofty  palace  are  winking, 

And  wanders  the  wild  wind  free, 
1 11  think  my  love  of  thee  ! 

I  'Jl  think  of  thee,  yes,  when  the  sunlight  is  chasing 

The  dark  visaged  Night  away 
When  the  Morning  the  frown  from  its  brow  is  effacing, 

And  blushes  upon  it  play — 
I'll  think  my  love  of  thee  ! 

I  '11  think  of  thee,  yes,  when  autumn  is  painting 

The  rustling  forest  leaves 
In  the  noontide  of  summer,  when  Nature  seems  fainting, 

And  grouped  stand  the  reaper's  sheaves — 
I  'Jl  think  my  Jove  of  thee. 


FOND,  deluded,  dreaming  lover  ! 

Rouse  thee  ! — dare  be  free  ! 
Thinkest  thou  there  is  no  other 

That  is  worthier  thee  ? 
She,  whose  fetters  now  are  round  thee, 

Scoffest  at  thy  pain, 
And  her  eyes,  like  darts  to  wound  thee, 

Brightens  up  again. 

POET  !  well  I  know  that  madness, 

Hovers  o  'er  thee  now, 
For  a  shadow  dark  as  sadness, 

Rests  upon  thy  brow  ! 
Rouse  thee,  pale  one !  there  are  other, 

Fairer  far  than  she, 
That  would  joy  to  win  a  lover, 

Doting,  fond  as  thee  ! 



Leave  her,  she  will  quickly  wither, 

As  the  leaves  decay, 
That  when  laughing  Spring  came  hither, 

Were  so  blithe  and  gay, 
All  the  wooing  sunny  breezes, 

Scorning  till  at  last, 
Forced  to  seek  embrace  that  freezes, 

From  the  autumn  blast. 


"This  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 

The  world ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 
As  a  bright  image  of  the  li?ht  and  beauty 
Tliat  dwell  in  Nature." — LONGFELLOW. 

SHE  sits  upon  the  azure  hills, 

When  stalks  the  sullen  NIGHT  away 
And  listens  to  the  shouting  rills 

That  hail  the  KING  OF  DAY, 
Who  for  her  lovely  form  doth  seek, 

With  ardent  and  impassioned  eye, 
Until  the  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

Are  mirrored  in  the  eastern  sky. 

At  noon,  she  wanders  forth  alone, 
Amid  the  green-wood,  wild  and  fair. 

And  listens  to  the  gentle  tone 
Of  spirits  gathered  there  ; 



Then  joins  the  bright,  but  viewless  band, 
And  leads  them  to  the  lowly  cot, 

Where  dwell  the  gifted  of  the  land, 
To  cheer  their  lonely,  thankless  lot. 

At  twilight,  in  the  glowing  west, 

She  crowns  herself  as  EVENING'S  QUEEN, 
And  in  the  rainbow's  vestments  dressedj 

By  FANCY'S  eye  is  seen, 
To  dip  her  brush  in  radiant  dyes, 

Extracted  from  our  Autumn  leaves, 
With  which  she  stains  the  fairy  skies, 

Like  garb  that  sylph  for  POET  weaves. 


"  Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully— they  who  mocked 
Thy  honest  face. 

Thou  too  shall  be 

Great  in  thy  turn — and  wide  shall  spread  thy  fame 
And  swiftly  ;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee," 

THOU  art  a  valiant  soldier,  John, 
Thy  post  thou  long  hast  stood, 

In  the  sunshine  and  the  storm,  John, 
As  faithful  soldier  should  ! 

Unshrinking,  when  the  wintry  blast, 
Is  howling  rudely  by, 

Like  sailor  on  the  towering  mast, 

.    Thou  dost  the  storm  defy. 

Thou  art  fair  Auburn's  guardian,  John, 
Her  grim  and  martial  friend, 

With  painted  eyes  thou 'rt  gazing,  John, 
On  hardened  villains  penned ; 

*Thia  title  was  long  since  given  to  the  figure  of  a  guard  in  full  dress, 
placed  upon  the  Cupola  of  the  State  Prison,  at  Auburn. 

108  STANZAS    TO    "COPPER    JOHN.' 

And  many  a  rougue  beyond  thy  glaace, 
Throughout  fair  '•  Yankee  Land," 

Is  thinking  of  the  time,  perchance, 
When  thou  shall  o'er  him  stand. 

What  though  thy  face  is  copper,  John  ? 

There's  many  a  face  of  brass, 
Unblushing  as  thy  own,  John, 

A  shameless,  prying  class, 
Who  neither  worth  nor  sense  can  claim, 

Yet  strive  to  blot  each  deed 
Of  goodness  from  the  scroll  of  fame, 

And  hate  and  discord  breed. 


THE  Spirit  of  Eve  hovers  o'er  me  now, 
Her  pinions  are  fanning  and  cooling  my  brow. 
I  hear  her  sweet  voice,  as  she  wanders  along, 
And  calls  on  the  tree-tops  to  join  in  her  song. 
With  the  tone  of  angel  she  seemeth  to  say, 
'Arouse  ! — ere  I  flit  to  the  BRIGHT-LAND  away  !" 

She  has  waked  from  their  slumbers  the  seraphs  that  dwell, 

On  the  green,  leafy  roof  of  the  wood  shaded  dell, 

And  onward  is  flitting,  unseen  in  her  flight ; 

Though  we  hear  her  soft  wings  brush  the  black  robe  of  Night, 

She  has  gone  to  repose  in  her  isle  far  away, 

In  the  couch  vacant  left  by  the  Spirit  of  Day. 


Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

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^\\E  UN'IVER^         v^LOS  ANGELA